


You and I

by lyllytas



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Longing, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens), Recovery, oh no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-08-23 18:43:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20247529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyllytas/pseuds/lyllytas
Summary: Crowley is so damaged, he knows his hurts, they are a familiar presence. He's used to waking up with nightmares, covering up his feelings with self depreciating humor and a nice pair of shades. Hell and the Fall have both left their scars on him. He knows he's visibly damaged but he does not acknowledge his wounds. He knows that they are there burning and tearing at his very being. And it is why it hurts him so much that it takes him so long to realize that Heaven left its own scars on Aziraphale, his love, oh his love is just as hurt as him, and he shouldn't be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> " You know I never could foresee the future years  
You know I never could see  
Where life was leading me  
But will we be together for ever?  
What will be my love?  
Can't you see that I just don't know? "

The two of them, they do things like they did before after the Apocalypse That Wasn't. Only now instead of randomly running into each other once in a while. They seek each other out; as if reassuring each other that they are safe. They go to parks, restaurants, and plays in London. They go to museums, art galleries, and gardens.

Sometimes they simply stay at the book shop. They drink wine for hours and talk about everything under the sun, and nothing at all. Crowley still drives too fast through town like the road will bend to his whims -which of course it does. And Aziraphale always chides his recklessness but his driving gets them to wherever they’re going. It's like nothing at all changed. But everything has.

Aziraphale is Crowley's world now that they are left on their own. He supposes the angel has been important to him for a very long time, but now he's _ALL_ Crowley has. Six thousand years on Earth - and while he hated reporting in; now he rather feels like a puppet with his strings cut.

He doesn't know what to do with himself now that he has no directions. Aziraphale at least has his book shop. Crowley is just _adrift_. And he feels the itch under his skin, knows that he craves _something_ but doesn't know if his heart can take being put off yet again. Instead he just lets it fester because he can't lose Aziraphale, not now.

Crowley is so very injured; he knows his hurts. They are a familiar stinging presence. He's used to waking up with nightmares, covering up his panic and feelings with self depreciating humor and a nice pair of shades. Hell and the Fall have both left their scars on him.

He knows he's visibly damaged but he does not acknowledge his wounds. He knows that they are there burning and tearing at his very being. And it is why it hurts him so much that it takes him so long to realize that Heaven left its own scars on Aziraphale; his love - _oh his love_ is just as hurt as him, and he shouldn't be.

Crowley's pain is vibrant and loud, and Aziraphale's is soft and deep, and it's so different from the pain the demon knows. Which is no excuse for not noticing it sooner. He'll feel guilty about that for ages to come. Hell is physical. From the cloying musk of decay coming from too many bodies packed together shuffling slowly to the unspeakable pain and beatings when he displeased the powers in charge. Touch is all too familiar. It's unconscious - it happens.

But Aziraphale is a stranger to such thoughtless touch, to casual spoken niceties, an offhand pat on the shoulder. To terrible spontaneous slow dancing in the back room of the book shop when a favorite classical comes on. Aziraphale eats up each moment with a surprised breath. So Crowley keeps doing it.

Crowley watches from afar when customers spew venom at Aziraphale; notes the distant look in his eyes and the acceptance, and while Crowley makes sure they have a miserable day paying for their mistakes, the angel never defends himself. It reeks of old hurts; of centuries of abuse that Crowley had never noticed. The shame eats at him.

He aches, _oh_ he aches to know that all this time Aziraphale has been in so much pain. He doesn't know how to fix it, but he tries. Aziraphale has never judged him for being kind in the past. And so he stands closer, touches casually, lets sweet words drip off his tongue freely because this Aziraphale and he is safe. Aziraphale would never hurt him intentionally. The same way he would never hurt Aziraphale intentionally.

He carves out a space in his life that Aziraphale will be comfortable with. Fills it with so many books and lamps, and cushions, oh the cushions; they are embroidered pillows, covered with quaint little phrases, and leaves no doubt that this room is made for Aziraphale.

It's warmth and comfort. It's such a contrast to the rest of his flat, it's crowded clutter and soft edges. It makes his skin feel prickly, his breath wants to come faster even though he _k__nows_ that this is a _Safe_ _Space_ for his angel, but it does not feel safe to his hind-brain. Aziraphale loves it, because of course he does, and Crowley loves it for Aziraphale, but he can’t stay there for long. And Aziraphale doesn't fault him for it.

Hell is stifling. He feels like he can breathe in the wide open spaces of his loft, _but_ when he was wearing Aziraphale's skin, he saw the hatred in the other angels' eyes, saw the barren space echoing around him, and felt how vicious Heaven was and how quick they were to judge.

He doesn't want Aziraphale to remember that _cruelty. _He never wants Aziraphale to feel the pain of Hellfire burning against his skin or the sting of brutal disappointment from those who are always supposed to love him.

Aziraphale is an Angel. And it's Heaven that hurt him, hurt them both really. Heaven is supposed to be good and nice, but Aziraphale is full of pain and sorrow that neither of them know how to properly address.

Crowley has always dealt with his hurts by pushing them down and not dealing, but it isn't acceptable to him for Aziraphale to do the same. He does not want Aziraphale to bury this pain - he wants Aziraphale to have never been hurt in the first place. He wants Heaven to be as _kind_ as Aziraphale is, but they aren't.

Aziraphale has lost his faith in Heaven - he knows that the other angels are not perfect now. He questions them, but he does not Fall. That makes Crowley jealous a little and then the demon gets angry at himself for _wanting_ Aziraphale to know the pain of the Fall. He doesn't.

He just thinks it isn't _fair._ Why did he Fall then? What about him wasn't good enough? Aziraphale gives up Heaven, b_ut_ he does not lose his faith in God. He does not question _Her_ the way Crowley had.

For that he is grateful. He is glad Aziraphale doesn't make the same mistakes he did. He is glad that his angel will not suffer his same fate. He won't carry the same wounds. But still Heaven left its marks on Aziraphale. And they are so deep and empty. Crowley has always built his walls up to protect himself. Aziraphale looks lost and shattered when he thinks no one is looking.

And Crowley knows that this lull of peace is only temporary, that eventually the truth of what they did will come out. He only hopes that the peace is long enough that Aziraphale starts to heal. If he can. Crowley doesn't think his own pain will ever heal. He doesn't allow it to. Allowing means acknowledging that it happened - that it hurt him, that he feels. He just pushes the pain down and denies it ever happened.

Crowley has his plants next to his office. He has his gloom, his empty spaces, his solitude. Aziraphale ventures into it sometimes. He'll look at Crowley sadly after Crowley gets done yelling at the plants and will brush a hand across their leaves and speak to them softly. Crowley doesn’t know how to take that. He huffs, because he knows how to play his part but sometimes he really doesn’t want to.

There’s a gap between them he doesn’t know how to bridge. Aziraphale is so precious to him. He’s everything to Crowley. the Demon can’t lose him, and for 6,000 years now he’s been content to be Aziraphale’s friend. But the world had almost ended, they’d chose each other. He's been yearning for Forbidden fruit. He wants Aziraphale to trust him, to love him back.

He wants to taste Aziraphale's kisses, fall asleep in his arms. He yearns to touch. He wants, _oh_ he wants so much, yet he knows Aziraphale still startles at casual touches and freezes at compliments. Knows that Crowley's wants would overwhelm him.

He tries to slow down. It burns, this desire inside him begging him to reach out to touch, to taste, to know. His heart cries out to him that he can't take this much longer. It was easier when they saw each other less frequently, but he can't go back to that. He'd be alone, and that's too scary. He forces himself to endure this ache. For Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there's more to this in me. I'm just stuck. I'm hoping to get the juices flowing by posting this. This is all Crowley's feels. It's definitely not one sided pining! YoU gO ToO FaSt FoR mE CrOwLeY! Time to catch up, Aziraphale!


	2. Aziraphale

Aziraphale has been denying himself things for so very long to try and protect himself. He has always known if he loves something, _truly loves _it and shows it, then it is a weapon that can and will be used to hurt him. So he pours all his energy into _safe_ things. Things that will not hurt him nearly as much when they get turned against him.

He lavishes his attention on food, indulges in wine and does so many other things that can be seen as mildly naughty so that no one ever uses his real weak spot against him. Of course _They_ knew. This whole time, and his “_boyfriend in dark glasses_”, Is he really that easy to read? Oh, he has always been trying to protect them both, and he's done a pathetic job at it.

‘_Lose the gut.’_ That sting he’d been expecting. Realizing he was in Heaven with no way to get back to Earth, and that his last conversation with Crowley had been a fight is worse. ‘_This is over._’ It tears at him to realize that he had chosen Heaven over Crowley, had abandoned his dear; had made the wrong choice.

<~>

Everything works out, in the end, but that weight in his chest follows him around.

Now, the world had crashed at his feet and it was been righted by an eleven year old. One that he almost killed. It's a punch to the gut. But then his dear Crowley was talking. '_Stay With Me', 'Anywhere you like', 'Let's Trade Places'. _Crowley doesn’t blame him, doesn’t guilt him. He should, but he doesn't. And Aziraphale is so tired of denying himself the things he wants.

Aziraphale is a traitor to Heaven now. And his next act is to protect Crowley from Hell. Aziraphale is utterly terrified that he is sending Crowley to _Them,_ and Crowley looks scared too. They wear each others skin, hoping that they have guessed the correct meaning of a dead witches words, and practice being each other.

<~>

It works. They make it through Heaven and Hell. They slide back into their proper bodies and Aziraphale _feels_ Crowley slide against him for a moment. It unsettles him and its perfect. But Crowley does not mention it. They make jokes. They leave the garden and go to lunch like usual. Like the world hadn't ended and everything they knew hadn't been ripped away. Like they didn't almost die.

<~>

They go on.

Aziraphale putters around the book shop - ‘_It burned down._’ He carries around a bin bag and throws away all his candles. Packs away any summoning implements. He won't be contacting anyone. Not Heaven, Angels - God. He doesn’t know where he stands with her. He doesn’t know what part he plays in the Ineffable Plan. But it won’t include him being in Heaven. He’s staying here. He's done.

He stood up to _Them._ After so long believing that he would endure this because: they would be just, they weren't. They just wanted their war.

He can't be part of that. _Won't._ They are cruel under their majestic facade; it’s wrong. He wants this life, here on Earth. He wants peace, good music, wine, freedom, and food. And of course Crowley. 

<~>

Aziraphale sets about making sure that the book shop won't ever burn again. He can't bear how much it hurt Crowley. Yes, it hurt him too, this was _his_ place after all. But the demon's voice had been filled with so much _raw_ pain. ‘_I lost my best friend._’ Aziraphale had abandoned him. His dear boy had given up. Crowley had been broken and devastated, but pulled himself together once he had realized Aziraphale was back and went to him.

Oh, the _guilt, _it eats at Aziraphale. He is filled with so much _shame._ Bad angels, all of them, and he is one of them - a bad angel. He goes to places that he might run into Crowley to distract himself from his thoughts. He spends time in that dreadful flat; he prefers drinking at the book shop but he thinks he understands Crowley now. Sleek, spacious, clean. So unlike Hell.

<~>

Aziraphale thinks that he's denied himself long enough, but does not know how to navigate through these waters to get to what he wants. He doesn’t think he deserves it. This pain. It's new, and it's scary. And Crowley is right there next to him, but he is oh so very far.

_Please,_ he wants to say,_ please tell me you want this too. Please tell me you don’t hate me. Please tell me it isn't too late.  
_

<~>

"Crowley," Aziraphale sighs as he swallows his bite. They are at a quaint little bistro Crowley has found. "This place really is _lovely."_ He sets down his desert fork and smiles.

"The fairy lights are a bit much." Crowley waves dismissively.

"I think they're wonderful." Aziraphale blinks dreamily. For a moment, the guilt eases.

Crowley pointedly slurps his coffee. "Finish your mille-feuill, Angel. I've got something to show you."

_"Oh?"_ Aziraphale picks up his fork, suddenly nervous. "Did you hear from,” he pauses, “_You Know Who?_"

"I've not heard from anyone," Crowley shoots him a look. "I just thought you might like this."

Aziraphale takes another dainty bite off his fork and chews."I'm _intrigued._" 

“Doesn’t have any dinky lights, though."

"Whatever it is, I'm sure it's just splendid." Aziraphale shoots him a smile.

"You've not even seen it." Crowley looks away.

"You wouldn't bother showing me something boring." 

Once he clears his plate, they pile back in his car. Aziraphale follows him mutely into his flat.

"Well then," Aziraphale says once he is inside. "Let's see it then."

"In here." Crowley guides him through the flat to what would be the sitting room in a normal person's house.

Aziraphale exhales a started noise as he takes in the room. It's cozy. Every inch of this room looks as if it's been transplanted from a cottage. There's paintings on the walls, a plush white recliner and settee, a dark coffee table with greenery and decorative pieces. There is a matching dark bookshelf that is overflowing, and lamps with sparkling pull chains.

White gauzy curtains hang over a window with a view that it shouldn't have. Sunlight streams through the curtains even though it is evening. There are overlapping woven tan rugs across the dark wood floors and the scent of lavender hangs in the air.

“_Oh. _It's wonderful." He breathes with wonder as he slowly enters the room, swallowing as he looks over everything before turning back to Crowley who stays in the hall.

"Well, you come here often enough." Crowley shuffles awkwardly. "I thought I might get a break from you silently judging my interior decor."

"It's for me?" Aziraphale spins and looks at him with wide eyes. He looks away.

"Well it was just empty. I don't use it for anything."

Aziraphale inhales deeply, runs his fingers along the spines of the books on the shelves. It feels like Crowley in here. Feels safe. Feels loved.

"Say something." Crowley huffs.

"Oh, my dear boy, it's perfect."

"Not just saying that?" Crowley looks unusually uncertain.

Aziraphale crosses the room, takes his hands up and looks him in the eyes.

"I love it. Thank you."

Crowley face burns brilliant red, but he doesn't notice, already moving to study the coffee table. So much thought went into this room and he is so absorbed by it that he does not pay attention to the demon melting down outside the room.

Crowley manages to pull it together after a moment. “Are you _crying?”_

“This is the nicest thing anyone’s _ever_ done for me.”

"Really? It’s just a room. Surely someone up there’s done _something_ better for you than a demon can manage to whip up.”

“No.” Aziraphale turns his attention on Crowley. “Thank you.”

“Ngk,” Crowley stutters, unused to emotions like this. “Wine?" He manages. “I have wine for us.”

"Splendid." Aziraphale claps.

<~>

Then three hours in, and Aziraphale is happier than he's been in ages. It's perfect. He has to close his eyes. He's overcome with so many different emotions. He doesn't ever want to leave this room. "This is what Heaven should have been."

"Wot?"

"This, Heaven should have been like this. Warm, cozy, inviting." Aziraphale looks into his glass like it has secrets "its-"

"Don't you say nice." Crowley warns from where he's decided to sit on the floor by the angel.

Aziraphale smiles. "You are though. I'm friends with the nicest demon in the universe."

"Friendssss. Right." Crowley looks down and drinks.

"10,000 angels up there." Aziraphale points, "And you're my only friend."

"Their loss." He shrugs.

"I used to think there was something wrong with me." 

"Wot, no." Crowley almost lungs up Aziraphale, resting his hand on his knees so he an look him in the face.

"Bah, they're wrong." Aziraphale declares "Mean angels."

Crowley slides all the way back down to the floor, resting his head on one of his hands and looks up at Aziraphale. "Fuck them."

"You're right,” Aziraphale drains his glass. “Fuck them."

Crowley stares at him astonishingly and then laughs.

Aziraphale laughs too. Crowley has a nice smile.

<~>

Crowley is always touching him now. Has the demon always been this tactile? He's ashamed he never noticed. It's the sweetest torture. He's being slowly driven mad. Crowley is always _there_ and he's always kind. His words are so gentle, so sweet. Never tinged with bitterness towards him.

He's glad when he stumbles on Crowley yelling at his plants. Quiet anger is something he's familiar with. This loud anger, it fascinates him. Crowley always stops when he comes around though. He wishes he wouldn't. Crowley should be yelling at him. It's what he deserves. But the demon is never hostile towards him. He stays soft. He treats Aziraphale gentle, as if he's made from glass and is something precious.

He can't go on like this. His soul is weary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, they have a much needed conversation.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> None of this was what I had outlined. This story is writing itself at this point and I am screaming while holding onto the reigns

It's midnight. Not that it matters to them. They are occult beings. The occult don't need sleep, though Crowley partakes of it often enough. Today Aziraphale has spent the whole day soaking in a bath that stayed at just the right temperature with bubbles that never went away and working his way through a Lambrusco Rosato that Crowley would absolutely hate and now he wants to close his eyes and _/not think/._

He's been trying to drink away the shame and anger burning away inside of him. Neither feeling is particularly angelic. But the drink isn't working. It's there and he can't escape it. He pulls the plug and lets the water drain around him, bubbles suddenly disappearing.

He wraps a towel around his waist then cinches his plush robe tight around him. He makes his way out of the bathroom and downstairs where he clicks on a lamp in his backroom. The wine gives him more gusto then he feels, and his fingers itch towards his phone.

No. He tells himself as he turns away. Maybe a nice book is what he needs.Yes, he'll read his favorite book and make some cocoa. That will set his thoughts straight.

He hears the bell jangle in the shop. The shop has been closed all day, and it is much too late in the night for sudden visitors. Not that anyone else has a key. The doorbells shouldn't be going off. He is so weary and he doesn't want to deal with whatever has made its way past his locked doors.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley calls, like he'd been summoned by Aziraphale's thoughts. “Zira~ Where are you?"

Aziraphale sighs. “Back here.” He answers. He debates for a moment about sobering up, but decides not to waste a good thing. He's not really dressed for company, but it's just Crowley. 

“Erp!” Crowley grinds to a halt as he turns the corner and takes in the sight of Aziraphale with dripping hair and the robe wrapped around him in the lamplight. He smells of roses and sweetness. “What are you wearing?”

“I was in the bath.” Aziraphale resists the urge to tug on his robe like a blushing maiden and rolls his eyes. “Something normal people do at this hour.” He holds his arms out. “What have you brought me this time?”

Crowley mutely holds out the plant in it’s white glazed potter. His glasses are off, pupils dilated in the poor light.

Aziraphale holds the planter aloft to take it in better. The plant is maybe 20cm in diameter and it's long spiky, leaves are curled up, in blues, indigos, purples and greens. “Oh my, what pretty colors!” He looks back at Crowley. “What is it?”

“It's an Aloe.” Crowley squeaks out.

“Aloe doesn't look like this!”

“Aloe peglerae does!”

“It's like you!” Aziraphale traces one of the leaves, careful of the spikes.

Crowley looks at him strangely. “Wot's that supposed to mean?”

“Bright, spiky, and simply wonderful.”

Crowley freezes. “Angel, what have I told you about being nice to the plants? They don't grow as good.” Crowley says once his brain has restarted, though his face heats up.

“Bah, nonsense.” Aziraphale cooes down at the plant. “You're fantastic aren't you?” He looks up at Crowley. “I'll find a spot for her then, what does she like?”

“How do you know it's a girl plant?”

“I just do.”Aziraphale spins in the dim lamplight, looking for a suitable spot.

“Just pop it on a windowsill, and don't drown it.”

“That's what you said about the last one!” Aziraphale turns back to him.

“That was a FAKE plant.” Crowley huffs. “A really good fake, but still not alive. I have no idea how you managed to kill a fake plant.”

“You let me take care of a fake plant?!” Aziraphale voice rises. “For two weeks? You watched me water it and everything!”

“Well, I thought this one wouldn't die on you!" Crowley defends himself. "You get all sulky when they do.”

Aziraphale's lip quivers and he turns back to find an appropriate spot, muttering under his breath.

“What's that?”

“I said, what if I do kill this one too?”

Crowley pulls the pot from his hand and sets it down without much thought. “If it's such a big deal to you, I can come by and take care of it." He looks at Aziraphale "But Angel, why do I think this is about more than plants?”

“Oh Crowley, it is about the plants!” Aziraphale worries his hands

“Is it?”

“They don't deserve to die just because I'm pants at everything.” Aziraphale cries 

“Wot, Angel no, you aren't!”

“I am!” He buries his head in his hands. “I'm an awful angel. What sort of angel can't even keep a plant alive?”

“You just don't have a green thumb." Crowley tries to comfort him "There's plenty of other stuff you're good at.”

“Yeah, lying to God, making terrible decisions, averting plans that were six thousand years in the making." He wipes at his face. "Oh, Crowley, why don't you hate me?”

“Aziraphale, how could I hate you?”

“I hate me.” Aziraphale looks away, pain in his eyes.

Crowley is dismayed. “No! I have the market cornered on Self Loathing. You're not allowed to encroach on it." He takes Aziraphale's shoulders in his hands. "Is this because of Alpha Centauri?”

“I should have gone with you.” He says miserably, the wine loosening his tongue. “You mean everything to me. And I said those things because I was scared. I thought that this could all be fixed, that there didn't have to be a war," He shook his head. "and it took me being stuck in Heaven getting shouted at being given a uniform and a platoon to lead to realize that there was no way to avoid this. It was happening and I was losing you." He looks at Crowley, his lip trembling. "But then I didn't, and why won't you even get upset with me?”

“Aziraphale," he says softly. I always knew you'd have to see for yourself. All this time and I knew, I _knew_ what you'd do. You trust." He takes one of Aziraphale's hands. "I can't fault you for that. You always want to see the best in people, even when they've been hurting you for so long.”

“They haven't." Aziraphale shakes his head. "I have no right to complain.”

“What? Just cause Hell was more physical doesn't change anything. Aziraphale, love, look at me.” He squeezes Aziraphale's hand tightly. “Really look at me.” He waits until Aziraphale meets his gaze. “You're so much kinder than all of them put together. You're the most gentle person I know, and it hurts me so much to see you doubt yourself like this. I'll never get upset with you for trying to be good.”

Aziraphale surges forward, kissing him. Crowley freezes for a second, then melts into the kiss. Six thousand years of waiting for this. His hands fly to Aziraphale's hair, and Aziraphale's own rest on his hips. Aziraphale is greedy, deepening the kiss, and he happily lets him, eager to finally taste Aziraphale. Aziraphale pushes him back until they connect with a wall.

“Azira...Aziraphale.” Crowley pants, tasting the wine on his tongue. “This isn't right.”

“I don't care.”

“I do! You're drunk.”

“So?”

“And fragile.”

“I'm not!”

“I'm not going to take advantage of the situation.”

“Oh, Crowley, why do you always have to be such a good person?!” He sucks on Crowley's neck. “Not taking advantage of anything.” He presses a kiss to Crowley’s fluttering pulse before latching on.

Crowley thunks his head back against the wall, having to fight to keep his hands on the wall beside him and not tangle them in Aziraphale's hair. “Angel, you have no idea how much it pains me to say no to you.”

“Then don't.” Aziraphale licks at the base of his jaw.

“Words!” He stammers. “Use your words!” He pushes Aziraphale's tongue back into his mouth with a finger. “Put that away.”

Aziraphale sucks the finger into his mouth.

“Oh fuck!” Crowley pants, torn between the urge to take everything he's ever wanted and the knowledge that this is truly wrong. “Aziraphale. Talk to me, please? This isn't like you.”

“Don't want to talk.”

“Yes! Yes you do.”

He urges Aziraphale back into a chair. Aziraphale goes willingly enough with his manhandling. “Sober up.”

“Fine, if you insist.” He rolls his eyes.

“I do.” He crosses his arms expectantly.

Aziraphale does, then grimaces at the taste.

“_Now_ can we talk?”

“I don't see what there is to discuss.” Aziraphale says moodily as he crosses his arms.

“There is oh, so very much to talk about.” Crowley pulls on his glasses. “For one, _what_ was that?”

Aziraphale scowls. “That was a whole bunch of nothing's happening." He grinds his teeth. "What, I'm not even good enough to make out with?”

“Angel, stop that! You very well know I've been in love with you for a very, _very_ long time!” He looks wrecked.

“Then why stop me?” Aziraphale yells at him, standing up.

“Because I'm not going to use you too.” He shouts back. “Look,” He pauses, controlling his volume. “I want you, A _lot._ But not like this.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “Well then get out!”

“Angel?” Crowley looks like he's been slapped

“No, you had your chance to talk, Get out.” He points to the door.

“I'm not going to leave you when you're all upset like this.”

Aziraphale pushes his way past him. “I said, get out.”

“Fine, I don't know what's going on in that head of yours.” Crowley says sadly, afraid he's making the wrong decision. “I'll go. But we're going to talk about this. When you're you again.”

Crowley slinks past him, shooting him looks.

“When I'm me? What the devil does that mean?” He says to himself once Crowley closes the door behind him and he hears it lock. _Oh_ that whole thing had gone rather sideways. He hadn't meant for any of that to happen. And why had he reacted like any of that?

It was so confusing. He's out of sorts. He climbs up to his seldom used bed in the seldom used flat above the shop, and buries his face into the pillows. His anger was been a flash in the pan, and now he was oh so very tired, and oh so very sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was supposed to be a funny light chapter where Ooo it'd be so funny if Crowley gave Aziraphale a fake plant, and why don't they kiss, and now it's on FIRE. SEND HELP


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had two different versions of this chapter, and liked this one better.

Aziraphale shop the isn't open the next day. Crowley isn't too bothered by it. Unusual hours are standard for Aziraphale. He will come back later so they can have the talk they so very much need.

The second day of closure- it's a little odd, but not unheard of. Aziraphale occasionally takes jaunts off to the countryside in the search of a rare book. But every time Crowley swings by and is greeted by the closed sign, it grates on him.

On the third day he's worried. He gives the lock a stern talking to and makes his way into the shop. He did tell Aziraphale he'd take care of the aloe plant after all; at least that is the excuse he keeps ready on the tip of his tongue.

He moves the plant to the windowsill in the back room, which gets better light than the shop, and waters it. He doesn't yell at it, after all, Aziraphale would not like a scared plant. He waits around for a couple more hours, reading some book that he does not absorb anything from, but Aziraphale doesn't come give him a lashing for breaking in.

He keeps doing it, stopping by to water the plant and hanging around. He hopes each time to see Aziraphale. He even brings more greenery, you know, just in case the aloe is lonely, and hoping that it will get some kind of reaction.

It doesn't.

By the sixth day he is rather worried; this isn't like the angel. The plants are doing just fine, but Aziraphale still hasn't materialized. This it unsettles him deeply. He wanders through the shop looking for clues to where his angel has gone.

On his third go round of the shop he finally comes across a door that hadn't stuck out to him before. (At some point Aziraphale had talked it into going rather unnoticed by whomever was in the shop. Crowley wasn't even privy to it's existence.) All he knew about before this was the back room, but it makes some sense that the angel has more here; he had said he'd been in the bath the other night, and there clearly wasn't a tub downstairs.

Crowley climbs up the stairs, pocketing his glasses. “Aziraphale, you up here?” He calls out, not really expecting an answer. The stairs creak as he walks up them.

Upstairs is a flat, a little comfortable space. Lots of windows with lacy curtains, tchotchkes and gewgaws on every flat surface, and of course, stacks of books everywhere. The first room he comes across in his search is a rather splendid bathroom with a marvelous tub that he's almost envious of.

The second is a coat closet full to the brim, which is rather amusing since his angel has worn the same outfit for the last couple hundred years. The third door is a bedroom, though it is brighter and cozier than his own. Aziraphale is laying in the bed.

“There you are.” He says softly to himself as he steps in. He adjusts the blankets around the sleeping angel, relieved that Aziraphale hasn't run off and left him.

He comes by the shop every day after that, hoping that Aziraphale will finally be awake. The days turn into weeks, and the weeks into months. He doesn't like being on the other side of this equation. The hurt and questions he have dim, blanketed by concern and time. He talks to the plants. Not yelling, actual talking. Because he misses Aziraphale. He misses their conversations.

And then one day, he comes up to find that Aziraphale is gone- the bed is empty.

“Aziraphale?” He looks to the empty bed, spinning around as if that will make the angel appear. He's absolutely gutted when it doesn't work.

He thinks to check the bars first, but drinking away feeling is rather his thing, not the angel's. Instead he stops by every bakery and restaurant in London until he finally feels the familiar presence of Aziraphale.

“Oh!” He breathes filling with relief. Aziraphale is seated, a full plate in front of him, untouched. They're in Kensington and he doesn't know what the other has done, but none of the staff even seem to notice him sitting there. Crowley slides forward, taking a seat on the other side of the table before Aziraphale even notices that someone is there.

“Crowley!”

The angel has given him quite the scare, and after tearing through London fearing that Aziraphale really has run, he's quite exhausted. He slumps in his seat and rests his head on the table, overwhelming relief washing over him. Aziraphale is here.

Crowley takes the water glass off of the table after a moment and drains it before looking up. Aziraphale looks ready to bolt. Crowley sets the empty glass down on the table gently.

“I, er, Hello.” Aziraphale manages.

Crowley wants to rage, after all these months, and _hello?_ But anger is the wrong response, he knows. “Hi, angel.” He says back after a moment.

“I think," Aziraphale starts. "I rather owe you an apology for the other night.”

“Other night?" He frowns and gently says, "Angel, it's been 4 months.”

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale looks flustered at that. “I hadn't meant to sleep that long.”

“I didn't even know you slept.” Crowley folds his hands together.

Aziraphale fiddles with his flatware. “I don't, not usually. But you seem rather fond of it, so I thought I'd give it a try.”

Crowley watches his angel fidget. “You okay?”

“I am sorry for the way I acted. It went quite a bit pear shaped. That really wasn't like me.” Aziraphale gestures and the glass refills with something darker. He takes a deep sip before he glances at Crowley. “And I'm sorry I worried you. I just wanted to think.”

“I'm not mad at you, angel.” Crowley looks softly at Aziraphale, wishing he didn't have to hide his eyes. Aziraphale may have made the waitstaff leave him alone, but yellow eyes would hardly go unnoticed by patrons. He squeezes one of Aziraphale's hands instead.

“Oh.” Aziraphale turns his hand over, and just like that, they're holding hands. “You're rather dear to me. I was afraid I messed everything up.”

“You didn't.”

“I, oh Anthony.” He dashes at his eyes with his free hand. When had he started crying?

“Angel.” Crowley holds his hand tighter. “I care about you, a whole awful lot. These past few months were dreadful. I was so scared that you'd wake up and run off, and then you did. All I could do was hope that you hadn't run too far.”

“I..”

“You don't have to say anything, just let me talk,” He rubs his thumb against Aziraphale's hand “Please?”

Aziraphale nods.

“I've messed up plenty in my time, and I've faffed around for quite a while." He looks at Aziraphale. "Back in the garden, when they told me what they wanted me to do, I thought, this is going to be the easiest job I've ever had, look at that bloke; he let a demon get into the garden? But then you surprised me."

He squeezes the angels hand. "You talked to me like I wasn't beneath you; told me you gave away your flaming sword because you wanted to be nice.” Crowley smiles at the memory.

“I know you had questions for her, I could see them behind your eyes, but you always had something I didn't - faith and trust that the almighty had a plan." He says. "If she had a plan, I didn't want people to suffer to make it happen." 

"That was our difference." Crowley continues. "I had doubts. I asked too many questions, I always did." He shakes his head "I want to know things. And you, well, you treated me like I was a demon, but you treated me like an equal too.”

“And I was fascinated with you. You never made me feel like it was a personal fault that I fell.” He swallows. “You're truly good; compassionate and kindhearted. You're what Heaven should have been. Maybe it's Blasphemous, but it makes me so very angry to see how you suffered up there with them.

“Oh.” Aziraphale looks rather floored by his words, and rushes to a response. “I didn't suffer. Not really. Not like you did. I'm just not very thick skinned.”

“Angel, _dearest,_ words are a sort of violence too.” He sighs. “I'm a demon, _trust me_, I know all sorts of ways to make people miserable.”

Aziraphale swallows and Crowley leans forward, so that he can trace at Aziraphale's face with his own free hand, running a thumb across his cheek. Aziraphale closes his eyes and looks pained. He hates that they're in public. He wants nothing more than to curl up with his angel and kiss away the lines that have appeared between his brows.

“That night, I don't hold it against you. Maybe we could try it again sometime, possibly without the being right sloshed first.”

Aziraphale opens his eyes and glances away. “Please don't be so understanding. I'd feel better if you yelled.”

“Not gonna yell, not at you.” Crowley turns Aziraphale's face in his hand, forcing Aziraphale to look back at him. “You're not perfect. I know that. You and I both have our share of cock-ups. But you're a good person. The best.”

Aziraphale's shoulders slump. “Dear boy, I'm sorry. I just need time. I can't think.”

Crowley looks at him softly, “I've been patient six thousand years. I can wait however long you need.” He squeezes Aziraphale's hand again.

“Please do.” Aziraphale's voice sounds close to breaking.

“You're not going to push me away, Angel. I'll be right here, whenever you're ready. Promise.” He smiles sadly at Aziraphale, then releases his hand.

“Take as long as you need. You know how to find me.” He pushes away from the table, watching Aziraphale as he stands.

“Bollocks!” Aziraphale grabs his arm before he can move away.

“Angel?”

“You got to talk but I didn't.”

Crowley slides back into his seat, gesturing for him to go on.

“I can't be as eloquent as you." He fiddles with his pinky ring. "But I'd never forgive myself if I let you walk away without knowing how much you mean to me, because I do love you. Quite a lot.”

“Oh.” Crowley looks at him, mouth agape.

“I love you more than anything.”

Crowley inhales sharply, his face going red.

“My heart wants to spend every moment with you for the rest of eternity. My mind's just rather a mess.”

“The rest of eternity?” Crowley manages, his face heating up even more.

“Is that not what you want?” Aziraphale says, looking alarmed.

“No, it is!" Crowley assures him quickly. "I just, I didn't know it was what _you_ wanted.”

“It is!” Aziraphale swallows.

“Oh. Well okay then.” It takes a moment before he can think straight.

Aziraphale lets the silence stretch out between them while he figures out what to say. “I'm all messy inside," he starts, "but I don't want to try and sort myself out without you there.”

“I said I'm not going anywhere and I meant it.” 

Aziraphale puts his hands on the table. “I believe you. I just want you to know I feel the same way.”

Crowley smiles dopily at him. “Eternity, huh? That doesn't sound so bad with you.” He glances down at Aziraphale's untouched plate. “What do you say we get out of here. I bet the ducks would be happy to get fed, and you're not really eating much anyways.”

“Ducks. Yes. I think that sounds nice.” He pushes his chair back and offers Crowley his hand to stand, and then laces their fingers together. “Eternity sounds nice too.”

Crowley positively beams. “It does, doesn't it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had an MRI yesterday and planned out the next chapter. Being deaf and sitting in that tube for two hours without moving, it's actually kind of relaxing. I just get to sit and think.


	5. Memories

“Dear, are you busy?” Aziraphale calls to him from the other main room of the bookshop to where he's hanging out in the back. It's been a lazy week in October. The weather is just starting to cool, the trees are just starting to turn. Really, Crowley would enjoy this season more if Halloween was as big here in England as it was in the States. He loves Halloween. A whole holiday dedicated to dressing up, scaring, pranking, misbehaving, and sweets. 

“Not particularly,” Crowley looks up from the glossy pages of the magazine he's reading as Aziraphale makes his way into the room. “Why?”

“I have something I'd rather like your help with.”

“Sure, I'm not doing anything right now.” Crowley shrugs and drops the magazine. "But if you need another pumpkin gutted, you're on your own."

“No pumpkins, but you'll get to drive." He said. "I'll give you directions on the road.”

“Oh, look at you being all mysterious and wiggly.”

Aziraphale grins at him cheekily. “I know mystery is more you're sort of thing, but I thought I would try my hand at it. Now come along. Out we go.”

Aziraphale directs him to a familiar spot. It takes them slightly less 15 minutes only because Aziraphale refuses to give him anything more than turn by turn directions.

"Er," Crowley turns to Aziraphale when he realizes they are at Battersea Park. "It's the park.”

“Deftly deduced.”

“What are we doing here?" He asks as he parks the car, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“We're not _actually_ there yet, chop chop dear, shake a leg.” Aziraphale steps out of the car. He takes Crowley's hand and directs them through the park. They're both still getting used to this - showing and receiving affection.

It's so nice though. Aziraphale wonders how he ever lived before this. There's nothing quite like holding Crowley's hand as they stroll through the park. The sun is shining down on them, there a slight breeze and a bit to the air.

The color of the trees is indeed a splendid sight to behold, reflected in the surface of the ponds they pass. It be a lovely day to just enjoy, but they don't stop and feed the ducks or admire the sights. Aziraphale moves casually, but with a purpose, leading them onward. 

Crowley pauses mid stride when he sees the old bandstand that they'd fought in before what could have been the end of the world. “Why all the mystery for this?” he crinkles his brow. "What have you got planned?"

Aziraphale stops beside him and tugs on his vest. "My therapist says that I should try overwriting the bad memories with good memories." He raises his chin.

"Your therapist?" Crowley stares at him in disbelief. “You have a therapist?”

"Oh yes, the humans have cleverly figured out a way to heal their minds, and since I figured, we're close enough- I'd give it a go." He explains. "I found a lovely lady in there in Soho. It's been rather freeing." He pauses. "You should come along with me next time."

"And whatever have you been telling her?" Crowley raises an eyebrow. "This therapist of yours?"

"Well, I censor it of course. Heaven is my family, and Hell is yours." Aziraphale shrugs. "I just bend the truth so it's easier for mortals to comprehend."

Crowley's mouth does some interesting things before he finally speaks."You talk about me?!"

"Well yes, all the time. You make me quite happy. I could talk about you for ages." Aziraphale's voice is overwhelmingly fond and his hand returns to Crowley's to squeeze it.

"Oh." Crowley blushes and looks away, his gaze falling on the blanket spread out on the floor and the basket on it. "A picnic? Really? That's your good memory?"

"Well, not if you don't want to!" Aziraphale looks at him shyly.

"I didn't say that!" Crowley huffs and pulls on Aziraphale's hand, guiding them closer. "Come on Angel. There had _better_ be wine in that basket if I'm to sit on the concrete, even with a blanket."

"Yes, a splendid Sangiovese. Nibbles too. And those chocolates you like so much."

Crowley settles down on the blanket. "Oh, you spoil me."

"Not nearly enough." Aziraphale smiles at him.

Crowley flushes. That smile makes him _feel_ things. He digs through the basket, finding the wine among the food. There are two glasses wrapped up in a hand towel that he carefully unwraps. He passes a full glass over to Aziraphale and fills up his own.

“So, therapy huh?” He aims for casual. He misses it.

“Well, it's no yelling at plants, but I find it works.” Aziraphale teases him.

“Hm.” Crowley isn't convinced. He looks through the basket, this time paying more attention to it's contents. There is indeed several types of cheese, crackers and grapes too, and several chicken salad sandwiches. There's also pasta salad and cut up veggies.

Aziraphale sets up the plates and cutlery, making sure they both get plenty to eat.

They stay there for hours, chatting, and drinking wine from a bottle that never seems to empty. The plates have long since been picked clean when a thought hits him. Crowley turns to the basket. “Didn't you say something about chocolates?”

“Oh yes! I hope they haven't melted." Aziraphale looks a mite concerned. "It's cool today so they should be fine.” He takes another drink.

Crowley comes across the small box of chocolates in the bottom of the basket. "So angel, you about ready for desert?"

"Oh yes, desert, lovely." Aziraphale sighs.

Crowley opens the package and picks a sweet out. He smirks and brings one of the bite size morsels to Aziraphale's lips. "Open up." He instructs Aziraphale does. Crowley pops the chocolate into his waiting mouth, but Aziraphale sucks his fingers in too, tongue licking deftly between them.

Crowley exhales sharply and Aziraphale looks at him rather deviously.

"Marvelous. Be a dear then, how about another?" Aziraphale bats his eyes coyly.

_Oh, oh, two can play at that game._ Crowley picks up another chocolate. But instead of feeding Aziraphale, he pops it in his own mouth, making exaggerated moans as he chews and swallows.

"Yes. These are pretty good. Another, you said?" Crowley picks one up, biting gently on it and leaning forward.

Aziraphale's eyes widen slightly, but he meets Crowley halfway, taking the sweet and chewing.

Crowley really hadn't really thought that Aziraphale would actually take it - and with his mouth no less! He had thought it was something he could tease the angel about, and to have him treat it earnestly; he flushes intensely. “I...er.” He stammers.

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale says primly. “You've got a smug of chocolate on your lip.”

Crowley raises his hand to his mouth to wipe it away.

“Why waste it?” Aziraphale says, grabbing Crowley's wrist. He leans over and licks at Crowley's face.

“Ah!” Crowley hisses in surprise and pulls back.

Aziraphale glances at him, really studies him.

“Careful.” Aziraphale warns as he settles back down. “You'll drop the chocolates.”

Crowley flushes deeper and glares down at the mostly full box. “How are you so put together about all of this?” He doesn't think it's possible to be so embarrassed and survive. Crowley sobers up before he can say anything else too serious. The face of distaste he makes gets a chuckle out of Aziraphale.

“Well, I have been doing nothing but think about this all week.” Aziraphale says willing himself to be sober too for this talk, especially since Crowley did it. He grimaces a bit before continuing. “Clearly, I'm not all that 'put together'. Honestly, you're usually the smooth one. I'm just trying my best to reciprocate.”

Crowley tries to gather his thoughts. Him? _Smooth?_ “Thanks for not saying I'm a big gay disaster.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “Darling, If you're a disaster, I won't judge you. I don't think _either_ of us are going into this blind. You've got your mess, I've got mine. But I'm not bothered. We're in this together.”

Crowley drops the box of chocolates as he lunges towards Aziraphale. The chocolates spill across the blanket unnoticed. As first kisses go, it's nothing spectacular. It's messy; their noses smash together and their lips don't quite line up. Neither of them care.

Crowley adjusts himself and kisses Aziraphale again. This time it's better. His hands cup Aziraphale's cheeks and it's perfect. He's wanted this for so long, it's too much that it's really happening. He has to remind himself that he's in a public park. His eyes flutter open ages later. Aziraphale looks just as shaky as he feels.

Crowley backs away, scrambling to collect the fallen chocolates. Aziraphale puts his hands over Crowley's on the blanket, squeezing it. Crowley pushes his shades up with his free hand, trying to calm down. _He just kissed Aziraphale. He can__'t do this. Aziraphale will think he's leading him on. He just **kissed** Aziraphale and his hands are shaking too much to hold on to the chocolates. And oh, he has broken that one. Bugger._

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly to him.

Crowley wants to cry. He'd wanted Aziraphale for so long, and now that he has him, he's too messed up to even enjoy this. His mouth though, is always ready with quick quip even though his voice is shaky. “Love and kindness, not really a demon thing, I suppose that's why you're better at this.”

“Crowley, leave them.” Aziraphale says worried. “We can go as slow as you need.”

Crowley growls. “I don't want to go slow. It's been six thousssand years. I just need my brain to catch up.”

“I'm not going anywhere dearest.” Aziraphale runs his hand through Crowley's hair in soothing circles. “Eternity. That's what we said. I meant it.”

Crowley slowly relaxes under Aziraphale's ministrations. “In Hell,” he says after a moment, “Touches were never friendly, word never kind. I know you'd never hurt me. I know you're a good person. There's just, I don't know. I keep panicking.”

_“Oh,_ I do wish you'd come to therapy with me.”

“Yeah, she'd have a right field day with _all_ my issues. Look, just be patient with me. I'll figure it out.”

“I can do that.” Aziraphale cups his chin before releasing him. “I can be patient forever." He sighs and keeps carding his hand through his own hair. "Say, it's almost dinner time, I wager.” He checks his pocket watch.

“Are you seriously thinking of food right now?” Crowley grumbles, but is glad for the subject change.

“We could get Italian! There will be wine. A new shop just opened up down the street from the bookshop. You won't even have to drive home. You always get so grumpy when something kills a good buzz after dinner."

“I don't get grumpy. Children get grumpy.” He scowls. “It's just irritating. I worked plenty to get that drunk and then boom, gotta take it away just like that. And for what? So I don't smash up some mortal thing. Bah.”

“Well you can stay at mine, no need to worry about trivial things like that.” Aziraphale packs the basket back up and folds the blanket glad that Crowley looks more normal.

“I heard this place has those American style bread sticks. Light and fluffy, baked fresh! Yummy!" He rubs his stomach and then holds out his hand to Crowley. "Shall we, my dear?”

“Well, I do know how fond you are of bread.” Crowley takes his hand and starts to stroll back through the park. “Far be it from me to keep you waiting.”

Aziraphale sighs happily, placing his head on Crowley's shoulder. “My dear, I'd wait with you forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley, baby, I'm sorry, You had a lot of my own trauma bleed through. but I wholeheartedly believe that Crowley finds himself in WAY too deep WAY too often because he doesn't think things through. the Blushing messy demon and sarcastic/bitchy angel are my favorites so I love whenever I get to write any of that.  
also, RIP, I'm sorry Brittan, but that dry twig you're calling a breadstick does NOT live up to what a breadstick SHOULD be. And 100% Zira would love big fat warm breadsticks with olive oil and herbs to dip it in


	6. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue of sorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now proofread. My eyes are much less wonky, so if you still see something wrong, please point it out so I can fix it!

Aziraphale follows his therapists advice. He makes new memories - good ones. He learns that he doesn't have to take abuse some others dish out. He learns how to stand up for himself, to voice his opinion. He learns to heal.

And he wants to help Crowley. His dear, sweet boy who hides behind the persona he's been building for so long, a sheep pulling on wolves clothing. Crowley refuses to come with him to therapy; his therapist says Aziraphale can't force or fix Crowley, just be there for him and support him. Let Crowley fix himself when he's ready. So Aziraphale tries.

<~>

Intimacy is new to them both. They have forever, there's no rush. But Aziraphale wants to memorize everything about Crowley. He wants to _know_ him. Crowley has always been touching him, but now the angel touches back. He holds Crowley's hand. He runs his fingers through glossy red hair, he hugs him and cuddles against him when the demon wants to sleep. Aziraphale doesn't sleep much, but Crowley doesn't usually have nightmares when Aziraphale is touching him. So he lets his dear boy hug him like a stuffed toy and the angel spends hours thinking about how lucky he is to be allowed this softness.

<~>

There's so much love between them. Aziraphale feels it in every kiss they share. Feels it in each perfectly made cup of tea. The way Crowley drives slower so Aziraphale is comfortable enough to hold his hand, He feels it in the soft way Crowley looks at him when he wakes up from another full night of sleep and sees Aziraphale watching him. Crowley is his rock, but at times Aziraphale takes over – he is strong when Crowley is weak.

There's a lot of that at the start. Eons of pain and fear bubbling to the surface. Crowley is a mess of anxiety and stress. Aziraphale has a hard time speaking about things that matter; has a hard time expressing genuine passion and trusting because he always expects it to be turned against him.

Crowley brings up wedding bands, casually, like it doesn't matter. _“It's a human thing after all, so he understands if Aziraphale's not interested_” and that's all the motivation he needs to start looking. Aziraphale spends hours looking through different jewelry stores trying to find something that suits them both. He finally comes across a black titanium ring with a thick gold band decorating it. It only takes a minor miracle for the shop to carry the same ring but the other way. He pays for them both outright, no doubt earning someone a hefty commission.

<~>

Crowley touches his black band in the ring box and then Aziraphale's, not quite believing what he's seeing. “You actually?”

“I thought this way we could match.”

Crowley picks his band up and looks at it. The inside is engraved._ To The World_

“Will you,” Crowley looks up shyly, “will you put it on me?”

Aziraphale slides the ring up onto Crowley's ring finger. It fits him perfectly, of course. He motions the box to him and gestures for Crowley to do the same thing.

“To the world.” Aziraphale intertwines their hands so the rings touch.

“To the world.” Crowley softly repeats.

<~>

Crowley looks restless sometimes but never speaks up. They're working on that, both of them, being open with their wants and needs. Crowley paces sometimes like a caged animal. Aziraphale mentions casually that he's thinking of moving from London - It's grown too big, too busy. He wants someplace quieter, where he can sit and enjoy his books. Crowley perks up right away, even offering suggestions.

<~>

The two of them spend weeks, looking at different towns and villages around England, trying to find the right place. They look through websites, brochures and make day trips to look at locations.

They end up with a cozy cottage in South Downs. It has two bedrooms, a chimney, a splendid bath, a sitting room, a cozy little kitchen, and plenty of yard. It would cost a small fortune, if they cared about things like that. The proper papers are signed, and the money shows up. It's theirs.

<~>

Aziraphale whittles down his book collection, deciding what books he truly can't bear to part with, and donates the rest to different museums in London. He gives away a lot, he has so many books, and he's been watching over them for so long. In contrast, Crowley had very little. Some art, some clothes, a bed and lots and lots of plants*. Crowley says he doesn't care about them, and if Aziraphale is getting rid of his books, his plants can go too.

(He'd gotten rid of the his desk and chair in his office the day he came back from heaven, not wanting to to be reminded of the whole incident with the holy water.)

Crowley has so _little_, that Aziraphale refuses to entertain the notion. “Nonsense” Aziraphale scoffs. “There's plenty of room for them at the cottage. The real estate agent said the guest room gets the best light, and it's not like we plan to have any guests, we can put them in there. Plants are just the thing that a cottage needs.”

“There's a garden outside!”

“Well, we'll have one inside as well.”

And that's that.

<~>

They move into the cottage slowly, bringing over a few boxes and plants at a time. Their life in London keeps getting smaller. Aziraphale had originally planned to make the guest bedroom into a library, but instead takes over the sitting room. He places books carefully on the shelves Crowley made for him next to the fireplace.

The bed makes its way there, and so does his reading chair. The plants look splendid in the study, though Crowley gives him _looks_ when he starts talking about how radiant they are. Eventually they are all moved. He shutters down and sells the bookstore. Crowley gets rid of his flat. There's no more driving between here and London. They live in South Downs.

<~>

Aziraphale keeps chickens and ducks. Crowley's garden is gorgeous and he has a couple small beehives in the back. The neighbors trade goat cheese and milk for plenty of fresh eggs, a very fair trade in Aziraphale's eyes. They have little use for the eggs, it's just something to pass the time. His girls are spoiled, and lay the most delicious eggs, according to the townsfolk. No one can figure out Aziraphale's secret, nor Crowley’s.

<~>

In the winter, the cuddle up in the sitting room, enjoying the roaring fire and cups of coco. When the weather is agreeable, they venture around south downs or just sit in their deck chairs and enjoy the breeze and the heady scent of the honeysuckle that grows on their fence. Aziraphale volunteers at the local arts council and living museum. Crowley on the other hand embraces retirement, he learns to bake from their neighbors, and Aziraphale often comes home to the smell of fresh bread, pie, or some other treat. Crowley keeps the windows propped open most days to catch the breeze, though pests never make it inside.

<~>

No one in the town would dare to speak ill of Aziraphale. He's charmed them all to bits. They eat up his every word; Crowley therefore gets a pass on everything. However some people privately think he's a bit odd, all that black and drama. But he also makes the best apple crumble in town And his honey is a delightful gift bestowed upon seemingly random people, though the demon has a very particular system and set of requirements that only he understands.

<~>

Crowley will still occasionally have nightmares or get hit by a panic attack, but those episodes are far less frequent. The country living is really doing wonders to help him relax. They talk about everything, and when the words run out, they just hold each other. Aziraphale is grateful to share this with Crowley for however long heaven and hell leave them alone. Maybe it's not happily ever after, but it is a pleasant chapter to spend together. And whatever tomorrow brings, they'll face it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My parents have a house with a couple acres and a pond, which they raise goats, ducks, chickens and Canadian geese nest there. So I'm a little inspired by their land.  
Thank you guys for coming along on this ride~ It may have been a bit purple prose-y, but I loved it!  
and now I shall have a birthday smoothie and a bath!


End file.
